Sharks of Onslow County

Tag: Onslow County Wildlife

When Every Bird Looks Like a Hawk: Reading the Raptors of Onslow County
A reader recently asked me about five birds he had seen over the sounds of Surf City last weekend. He was convinced they were five different kinds of “sea hawks.”

At first glance, it was an understandable conclusion.

Each bird was large. Each spent time soaring overhead or hesitating up high over the water. Each occupied the same stretch of coastal North Carolina sky.

Yet every photograph and description reflected the same species: an osprey.

Distance has a way of simplifying wildlife. Colors disappear. Markings fade. Details are lost. What remains is a silhouette against the sky.

Most of us learn to recognize birds by their appearance. Raptors are often easier to understand by their behavior.
- What is the bird doing?
- Is it hovering over the water?
- Circling without flapping?
- Perched motionless on a fence post?
- Drifting above a marsh?
- Crossing silently through the trees after sunset?
The answer often reveals more than the feathers.

The skies above Onslow County are shared by a community of predators. Some hunt fish. Some hunt rodents. Some hunt insects. Some hunt other birds. Some hunt only at night. Others serve as nature’s cleanup crew.

At a distance they may look similar.

Spend enough time watching them, however, and the differences become impossible to miss.

Following the Fish

Osprey: The Fisherman

If there is a signature bird of the coast, it may be the osprey (Pandion haliaetus).

You notice one long before you identify it. The bird appears above a creek, river, or stretch of open water, turns into the wind, and suddenly seems to stop moving. For a few seconds it hangs there, suspended above the surface before plunging feet-first toward the water below.

That moment of hesitation is not hesitation at all.

The bird is making a final decision.

Water distorts light. Fish change direction. Wind roughens the surface. What appears obvious from a dock or kayak becomes much more complicated from above. The osprey’s brief hover allows it to judge distance, depth, and movement before committing to the dive (Poole, 1989; Bierregaard et al., 2020).

The splash usually draws everyone’s attention.

The fish often draws the next question.

Watch an osprey leave the water carrying a mullet or menhaden and it is difficult not to wonder how the bird manages to hold onto it. Fish are essentially living bars of soap wrapped in muscle, built to slip through water and escape predators. Osprey solve that problem with feet lined by tiny backward-facing spicules and a reversible outer toe that help secure slippery prey (Poole, 1989; Bierregaard et al., 2020).

Then, almost as soon as the bird becomes airborne, something else happens.

The fish turns.

Within seconds the osprey has repositioned its catch so the fish faces forward. What looks like a small adjustment saves energy over the course of the flight. A fish carried sideways catches air. A fish carried headfirst moves through it. Often the bird gives its catch a vigorous shake as it climbs away from the water, shedding excess water before continuing on its way. Together, these adjustments reduce drag and make transporting a heavy, slippery meal through the air more efficient (Allen et al., 2018; Poole, 1989; Bierregaard et al., 2020).

Around nesting season, however, it is often the noise rather than the fishing that gets people’s attention.

Osprey rarely seem quiet.

Calls echo from nesting platforms, channel markers, dead trees, and utility poles throughout the breeding season. Adults announce arrivals. Mates communicate with one another. Young birds call constantly whenever food appears nearby. What sounds chaotic from a distance is often a family carrying on a conversation (Bierregaard et al., 2020).

By late summer, that family becomes easier to see.

Several birds may gather near a nest, perched along the same stretch of water where they have spent months raising young. Then, without warning, they take to the air together. The younger birds follow the adults across creeks, marshes, and open water, practicing turns, landings, and the flight skills that will eventually carry them south. What appears at first to be a loose gathering of osprey is often a family still learning from one another long after the young birds have left the nest (Poole, 1989; Bierregaard et al., 2020).

To boaters, it is a channel marker in the New River in Jacksonville, NC. To an osprey, it is home. Many coastal nests are rebuilt and expanded year after year, becoming landmarks visible across the water. | Image credit: A. Mitchell

The nests themselves remain long after the birds have departed.

Many osprey return to the same sites year after year, adding sticks, repairing damage, and expanding structures that can eventually become enormous. What begins as a modest nest slowly grows into a landmark visible from hundreds of yards away (Poole, 1989; Bierregaard et al., 2020).

For many coastal residents, those nests become part of the landscape.

And when spring returns, so do the birds that built them.

Bald Eagle: The Opportunist

If you spend enough time around the water, eventually you’ll see it happen.

An osprey leaves the surface carrying a fish. For a few moments, everything appears normal. Then a second bird enters the scene.

Larger.

Heavier.

Built on an entirely different scale.

The bald eagle (Haliaeetus leucocephalus) begins to follow.

What started as a successful fishing trip suddenly becomes a chase.

From below, the interaction can look almost personal. The osprey twists and climbs. The eagle closes the distance. Sometimes the osprey escapes. Sometimes it drops the fish. The eagle wheels downward after the falling meal while the osprey continues on empty-taloned.

Why go through all that trouble?

Because catching a fish requires energy.

An osprey may spend considerable time searching the water, hovering above the surface, adjusting for currents, and committing to a dive before finally securing a meal. An eagle watching from a nearby perch can recognize that success immediately. From the eagle’s perspective, the fish has already been found. The difficult part of the hunt is over (Buehler, 2020).

This often leads people to wonder whether bald eagles are better fishermen than osprey.

The answer depends on how you define fishing.

If the goal is catching fish, the osprey remains the specialist. Nearly every aspect of its anatomy is designed around that task. Its feet grip slippery prey with remarkable efficiency, and its entire hunting strategy revolves around locating fish beneath the water’s surface.

A bald eagle approaches the world differently.

Rather than specializing in a single food source, eagles take advantage of opportunities wherever they find them. Fish remain important, particularly along the New River, Stump Sound, the Intracoastal Waterway, and the countless creeks that thread through coastal marshes. Yet waterfowl, mammals, reptiles, and carrion can also become part of the menu (Buehler, 2020).

A closer look at their feet reveals those differences. Osprey feet are designed to hold fish. Eagle talons are designed to seize and restrain a wider variety of prey. One bird is built around precision. The other is built around versatility (Buehler, 2020).

That versatility helps explain why bald eagles have become increasingly common sights along the Onslow County coast. Open water, abundant prey, expansive marshes, and large trees provide everything they need. Whether soaring above an estuary, perched along a creek, or watching from a pine overlooking the water, eagles occupy a position near the top of the coastal food web (Buehler, 2020).

And every so often, that position allows them to let someone else do the fishing.

The Hunters of Marsh and Forest

Red-shouldered Hawk: The Watcher on the Fence

Not every raptor announces itself from the sky.

Some introduce themselves by showing up in the yard.

You glance out the window and notice a hawk perched on the fence. Hours later it seems to be in exactly the same place. The next morning it is back again.

Eventually curiosity takes over.

What is it watching?

Perched above a yard in Jacksonville, NC, a red-shouldered hawk waits for movement. From elevated vantage points, these woodland hunters watch patiently for opportunities hidden within the landscape below. | Image credit: A. Mitchell

Many people assume the hawk is focused on the house, the dog, or the family moving through the yard.

In reality, the bird is usually paying attention to everything else.

A well-maintained yard often provides excellent hunting habitat. Frogs move through flower beds. Lizards bask along retaining walls. Small snakes hunt beneath shrubs. Mice travel fence lines and wood piles. The red-shouldered hawk watches for movement, waiting for the landscape to reveal itself (Dykstra et al., 2020).

That patient approach reflects the habitats these birds prefer.

Unlike the open-country red-tailed hawk, red-shouldered hawks (Buteo lineatus) are closely tied to places where woods and water meet. Creek corridors, swamp edges, ponds, marshes, and bottomland forests provide the cover and diversity of prey they rely upon (Dykstra et al., 2020).

A red-shouldered hawk feeds on captured prey in a parking lot. While often associated with swamps and wooded wetlands, these adaptable hunters frequently take advantage of opportunities in suburban landscapes. | Image credit: A. Mitchell

Along the coast, those habitats frequently overlap with where people live.

The fence post is simply the best seat in the house.

From there, the hawk can watch an entire ecosystem unfold beneath it.

Red-tailed Hawk: Master of the Open Sky

A red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis) – and my personal favorite bird – often attracts attention by doing remarkably little.

You notice one circling high above a field.

Several minutes later it is still there.

The wings barely move.

At first, most people wonder how the bird can remain in the air for so long without flapping. The answer lies in the atmosphere itself. As the ground warms, pockets of heated air rise into the sky. Red-tailed hawks locate these invisible thermals and circle within them, gaining altitude while expending very little energy (Kerlinger, 1989; Preston & Beane, 2024).

But staying aloft is only part of the story.

The real question is why the bird wants to be up there in the first place.

The answer becomes clearer when compared to the red-shouldered hawk.

A red-shouldered hawk often hunts by focusing on a particular place. A pond edge. A marsh creek. A backyard. It watches patiently from a perch, waiting for the landscape to reveal movement (Dykstra et al., 2020).

A red-tailed hawk takes the opposite approach.

Rather than concentrating on one corner of the landscape, it climbs high enough to see how all of those pieces connect. Fields blend into hedgerows. Roadsides meet forest edges. Open ground transitions into cover. From above, what appear to be separate places from the ground become a single hunting landscape.

That broader view is the red-tail’s specialty.

What appears to us as an empty field is filled with clues. A rabbit pauses along a fence line. A squirrel breaks from cover. A mouse rustles through the grass. The bird is not searching for a specific animal. It is searching for movement, patterns, and opportunities spread across hundreds of acres (Preston & Beane, 2024).

The thermal keeps the hawk aloft long enough to gather that information. Height becomes an advantage. Distance becomes information.

The bird is not circling because it has nowhere else to be.

It is circling because the sky offers the best view.

And from that vantage point, one movement in the wrong place at the wrong time is often all it takes.

Cooper’s Hawk: The Pursuit Hunter

If you maintain a bird feeder long enough, sooner or later the yard will go silent.

One moment cardinals, doves, and finches are moving between the feeder and nearby trees.

The next, everything disappears.

Then a gray blur streaks through the yard.

The first time you see it happen, it feels almost impossible that a bird that large could move that quickly through such a cluttered space.

Unlike the red-tailed hawk searching from hundreds of feet above the landscape or the red-shouldered hawk watching patiently from a perch, the Cooper’s hawk (Astur cooperii) hunts in motion. It is built for pursuit (Rosenfield et al., 2025).

Its long tail acts like a rudder while relatively short wings allow it to twist, turn, and accelerate through spaces that would seem impossible for most raptors. Branches, fences, shrubs, and backyard obstacles that slow other birds become part of the chase (Rosenfield et al., 2025).

That agility allows the hawk to exploit something many predators cannot.

Confusion.

A flock of birds startled into flight rarely moves in a straight line. Individuals scatter in different directions, darting through vegetation and searching for cover. The Cooper’s hawk follows.

What appears chaotic to us is a hunting opportunity to the hawk.

Yet not every backyard attracts a Cooper’s hawk.

If you’ve ever noticed that these birds seem more common in some neighborhoods than others, the surrounding landscape is often the reason. Cooper’s hawks favor places where trees, forest edges, wooded corridors, and open spaces meet. Those transitions provide both cover and opportunity, allowing the bird to move quickly between concealment and pursuit (Rosenfield et al., 2025).

A bird feeder placed within that landscape can become part of the story, not because the feeder attracts the hawk, but because it concentrates movement. Birds travel between the feeder and nearby cover. The hawk is already watching the area. The feeder simply makes activity easier to find.

Which is why the sudden silence is often the first clue.

Long before most people see the hawk, the birds have already noticed it.

For a few moments, the yard belongs to the fastest hunter in the neighborhood.

The Hunters of the Air

Mississippi Kite: Catching the Wind

At first glance, a Mississippi kite (Ictinia mississippiensis) looks like it should behave like any other hawk.

It drifts overhead with long, pointed wings, barely moving as it rides the summer air. Then it suddenly changes direction, banking sharply, twisting through the sky, and accelerating after something too small for most people to see.

The first time you notice it, the behavior feels strange.

What is that hawk chasing? Is it chasing dragonflies?

The bird banks again, then again, each turn seeming impossibly precise. Whatever it is pursuing appears far too small to interest a raptor. Yet the longer you watch, the clearer the answer becomes.

While many hawks spend their time searching the ground for prey, Mississippi kites have turned the air itself into a hunting ground. Dragonflies, cicadas, beetles, and other flying insects become meals captured directly on the wing. What appears to be effortless wandering is often an active hunt unfolding overhead (Parker, 2020).

That hunting style explains why they seem so different from other raptors.

The red-shouldered hawk watches a particular place. The red-tailed hawk surveys an entire landscape. The Cooper’s hawk chases prey through trees and backyards. The Mississippi kite is hunting somewhere entirely different.

Its long wings and graceful flight allow it to maneuver with remarkable precision, changing direction quickly as insects dart, climb, and shift with the wind (Parker, 2020).

The same warm air currents that help other raptors gain altitude also gather flying insects into concentrated pockets, creating opportunities for a predator adapted to exploit them (Parker, 2020).

The result is a bird that often feels more like a swallow than a hawk.

An osprey may be hunting fish below. A red-tailed hawk may be watching a field nearby. A Cooper’s hawk may be moving along a forest edge. Above them all, a Mississippi kite may be feeding on insects carried by the same air currents that support the rest of the ecosystem.

The bird is not ignoring the landscape beneath it.

It has simply found opportunity in a place most predators never think to look.

For the Mississippi kite, the sky is not a pathway.

It is habitat.

The Cleanup Crew

Turkey Vulture: Death Becomes Renewal

A turkey vulture (Cathartes aura) lands on your roof and suddenly everyone becomes concerned.

To us, it looks like a warning. To the vulture, it is simply another perch from which to read the landscape. | Image credit: A. Mitchell

Some people take it as a bad omen. Others wonder if something nearby has died. Before long, the bird becomes the center of attention despite doing little more than sitting still.

The turkey vulture, meanwhile, is completely unaware of the stories being told about it.

Most of the time, something far less dramatic is happening.

A rooftop provides warmth on a cool morning, a place to dry rain-soaked feathers, or a convenient perch where rising air currents can be reached without much effort. The bird is not predicting death. It is simply taking advantage of the landscape (Kirk & Mossman, 2020).

Yet the association exists for a reason.

Unlike the hawks and eagles we have encountered so far, turkey vultures are searching for something very different. They are not looking for prey. They are looking for what remains after life has already moved on.

A dead fish along the shoreline.

A raccoon hidden in roadside vegetation.

A deer beyond the edge of a forest.

But how do they find it?

Part of the answer can be seen on the bird’s face. If you are fortunate enough to observe a turkey vulture through binoculars or at close range, you may notice something unusual about its nostrils, or nares. Unlike our own noses, the openings pass completely through the beak. In the right light, you can literally see from one side of the nostril to the other (Kirk & Mossman, 2020).

A close comparison of a turkey vulture (top) and black vulture (bottom) reveals one clue to how they read the landscape differently. Turkey vultures use an exceptional sense of smell to locate carrion, while black vultures depend more on vision and the behavior of other vultures. Arrows highlight differences in the nostril openings of the two species. | Image credit: T. Lisney

That adaptation supports one of the most powerful senses of smell in the bird world. While many raptors rely primarily on vision, turkey vultures are able to detect the scent of carrion from remarkable distances, allowing them to locate food sources hidden beneath vegetation and, in some cases, even beneath the soil itself (Grigg et al., 2017; Kirk & Mossman, 2020).

Finding carrion, however, is only part of the challenge.

Consuming it presents an entirely different set of problems.

The turkey vulture’s bald head, which many people find unsettling, is actually an important adaptation. Unlike a feathered head that could trap blood, bacteria, and other organic material, the bare skin can be cleaned much more easily after feeding. What gives the bird its ominous appearance also helps protect it from the very things it eats (Roggenbuck et al., 2018).

The same is true inside the bird.

Turkey vultures possess an extraordinarily acidic digestive system capable of destroying many of the bacteria and pathogens that would make other animals sick. Organisms responsible for diseases such as anthrax, botulism, cholera, and salmonella are often neutralized during digestion, allowing the vulture to safely consume material that would be dangerous for most scavengers (DeVault et al., 2016; Kirk & Mossman, 2020).

Even their hygiene is unusual.

Turkey vultures practice a behavior known as urohidrosis, in which they defecate on their own legs. While it may seem unpleasant from a human perspective, the highly acidic waste helps kill bacteria picked up while walking on carcasses and also provides a cooling effect during hot weather (Arad et al., 1989; Kirk & Mossman, 2020).

Taken together, these adaptations solve a difficult ecological problem. Dead animals can become reservoirs for bacteria, disease, and decay. Turkey vultures have evolved to exploit that resource while avoiding many of the risks associated with it.

Black vultures, which are often seen alongside them, approach the problem differently. Their nostrils are narrower and not open from side to side. Rather than relying so heavily on smell, they depend more on vision and often watch the movements of turkey vultures to help locate food (Buckley et al., 2020).

That relationship creates an interesting partnership. Turkey vultures are often the first to detect a carcass hidden beneath vegetation, while black vultures are quick to notice where the turkey vultures are gathering. One species excels at finding the scent. The other excels at finding the finder (Buckley et al., 2020; Kirk & Mossman, 2020.

Together, the two species accomplish something few other animals can.

They return nutrients to the landscape.

What appears to be an ending becomes the beginning of something else. Energy stored within a fish, a raccoon, or a deer does not simply disappear. Vultures help move those nutrients back into the ecosystem where they become available to countless other organisms (DeVault et al., 2016) .

The bird on your roof is not waiting for something bad to happen.

More often than not, it is part of the reason the landscape remains healthy after it does.

Black Vulture: Following the Leader

A single turkey vulture on a rooftop often attracts attention.

Ten vultures attract concern.

What appears to be a crowd is often an information network. Black vultures frequently roost together, sharing a landscape where opportunities can appear and disappear without warning. | Image credit: jspruill, iNaturalist

Unlike turkey vultures, which are frequently seen soaring alone or in small numbers, black vultures (Coragyps atratus) often seem to arrive as a group, called a committee. One bird becomes five. Five become ten. Before long, an entire rooftop, parking lot, or dead tree appears covered in vultures (Buckley et al., 2020).

The first question is usually the same.

Why are there so many?

Part of the answer lies in how black vultures find food.

While turkey vultures rely heavily on their extraordinary sense of smell, black vultures depend much more on vision and on one another. They watch the landscape, but they also watch other vultures. A turkey vulture dropping toward a hidden carcass can reveal an opportunity that a black vulture might never have discovered on its own (Buckley et al., 2020).

That difference creates an unusual relationship between the two species.

Turkey vultures are often the first to locate carrion concealed beneath vegetation or hidden from view. Black vultures are often the first to notice that the turkey vultures have found something worth investigating (Buckley et al., 2020).

One species excels at finding the scent.

The other excels at finding the finder.

Their social nature extends beyond feeding. Black vultures frequently roost together, travel together, and gather in numbers that can seem surprising to people unfamiliar with them. What appears to be a crowd is often a network of birds sharing information about a landscape filled with unpredictable opportunities (Buckley et al., 2020).

That strategy has served them well.

A dead fish washed onto a shoreline, a raccoon along a roadside, or a deer hidden beyond the edge of a forest represents a resource that appears without warning and disappears quickly. By paying attention to one another, black vultures can exploit those opportunities efficiently.

To most people, the meal is something to avoid. To a black vulture, it is an opportunity. By consuming carrion that would otherwise decay on the landscape, vultures help return nutrients to the ecosystem while reducing the spread of disease. | Image credit: A. Mitchell

Like the turkey vulture, the black vulture plays an important role in returning nutrients to the ecosystem.

It simply approaches the problem differently.

Where the turkey vulture trusts its nose, the black vulture trusts its neighbors.

The Night Shift

As daylight fades, a different group of predators takes over.

The thermals weaken. The soaring hawks settle. Shadows lengthen across marshes and forests.

Then the owls emerge.

Eastern Screech-Owl: Master of Camouflage

Many people have an eastern screech-owl (Megascops asio) living in their neighborhood and never realize it.

Not because the owl is rare.

Because it is exceptionally good at remaining unnoticed.

You might spend years walking past the same tree without ever seeing this small bird tucked inside a cavity or pressed against the bark. Then one evening, just after sunset, a soft trill or whinny drifts through the yard and suddenly you realize there has been an owl nearby the entire time (Gehlbach, 2009; Ritchison et al., 2020).

The discovery often raises an interesting question.

If eastern screech-owls feed on many of the same insects, rodents, reptiles, and amphibians as some daytime raptors, why don’t we see them more often? (Gehlbach, 2009; Ritchison et al., 2020)

Part of the answer is timing.

While hawks spend the day watching fields, marshes, forests, and backyards, the eastern screech-owl waits for darkness. As daylight fades and the daytime hunters settle into roosts, the owl begins its own shift (Ritchison et al., 2020).

But timing alone does not explain its success.

The owl’s real advantage is concealment.

Its mottled gray and brown feathers blend remarkably well with tree bark, allowing it to disappear into the landscape even when it is in plain sight. During the day, many spend hours motionless inside tree cavities or against trunks where they become nearly impossible to detect (Gehlbach, 2009; Ritchison et al., 2020).

That camouflage allows the owl to remain close to people while largely escaping notice.

Neighborhoods, wooded lots, parks, forest edges, and suburban backyards can all provide suitable habitat. The insects drawn to porch lights, the rodents moving along fence lines, and the small reptiles hiding among shrubs create hunting opportunities throughout the night (Gehlbach, 2009; Ritchison et al., 2020).

By the time most people realize an eastern screech-owl is nearby, it has often been there all along.

Its success does not come from being the largest predator in the landscape.

It comes from being the one you never knew was watching.

Barn Owl: Sound Becomes Sight

A pale shape crosses a field at dusk.

For a moment it hardly seems real. The bird appears almost white against the fading light, gliding silently above the grass before disappearing into the darkness beyond.

The first question is often simple.

What did I just see?

For centuries, encounters like that have inspired stories of ghosts, spirits, and things that move through the night unseen. The barn owl’s piercing scream has only reinforced that reputation. Unlike the familiar hoots people associate with owls, barn owls produce calls that can sound startlingly human, often described as shrieks, screams, or cries drifting through the darkness. Heard for the first time from a forest edge or old barn, it is easy to understand how the bird became woven into folklore (Marti et al., 2024).

Yet the call serves a practical purpose.

In darkness, sound becomes one of the most effective ways for American barn owls (Tyto alba pratincola) to communicate with mates, defend territories, and maintain contact with one another. What sounds eerie to us is simply part of life for an owl that spends most of its time hunting when the rest of the landscape is asleep (Marti et al., 2024).

The hunt itself is equally remarkable.

Barn owls are among the most specialized rodent hunters in North America. Their heart-shaped facial disks act like satellite dishes, funneling sound toward asymmetrical ears capable of pinpointing prey with astonishing precision. A mouse rustling through grass can reveal its location long before the owl ever sees it (Payne, 1971; Marti et al., 2024).

That adaptation helps explain another common experience.

Step quietly into an old barn, abandoned building, or large outbuilding and you may discover one or more barn owls perched overhead. They often watch intruders with an intense stare, swaying and bobbing from side to side as they study the unfamiliar visitor below (Marti et al., 2024).

At first glance, the behavior appears nervous or even strange.

In reality, the owl is gathering information. The subtle movements help it judge distance, depth, and position before deciding whether to remain still or slip silently into the darkness.

Fields, agricultural landscapes, marsh edges, and open grasslands provide ideal hunting habitat (Marti et al., 2024). Every mouse captured represents energy transferred from one part of the ecosystem to another, helping regulate populations that might otherwise grow unchecked.

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The pale bird crossing the field is not a ghost.

It is one of the most effective hunters the night shift has to offer.

For the barn owl, sound does not simply reveal the landscape.

It becomes a way of seeing it.

Barred Owl: The Voice of the Swamp

“Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you-all?”

Once you hear it, you rarely forget it.

The call drifts through wooded neighborhoods, swamp edges, and forested wetlands after sunset, often carrying much farther than people expect. Many coastal residents know the sound long before they ever see the bird responsible for making it (Bierregaard et al., 2025).

The question naturally follows.

Who is calling from the darkness?

More often than not, it is a barred owl.

Unlike the barn owl crossing open fields or the eastern screech-owl disappearing into a backyard tree, barred owls (Strix varia) are closely tied to forests and wetlands. Swamps, creek corridors, bottomland hardwoods, and wooded neighborhoods provide the cover, water, and diversity of prey they need (Bierregaard et al., 2025).

The call itself serves several purposes. Barred owls use it to communicate with mates, establish territories, and maintain contact across dense forests where visibility is limited. What sounds like a conversation to us is often exactly that (Bierregaard et al., 2025).

Those forests and wetlands provide hunting opportunities throughout the year. Frogs call from wetland edges. Crayfish move through shallow water. Rodents travel beneath fallen leaves. Snakes, insects, and small birds all become potential prey. Rather than specializing in a single food source, barred owls have learned to take advantage of whatever the swamp provides (Bierregaard et al., 2025).

The swamp, however, does not make hunting easy.

Prey hides beneath vegetation, beneath water, and beneath layers of leaf litter. Fallen logs, tangled branches, and dense understory create countless places to disappear.

Barred owls overcome many of those challenges through silence.

The leading edges of their feathers are specially adapted to break up airflow, reducing the sound of flight to nearly nothing. A mouse rustling beneath leaves, a frog moving along a wetland edge, or a crayfish crossing shallow water may never hear the owl approaching (Bachmann & Wagner, 2016).

For prey, the danger often arrives without warning.

By the time a barred owl commits to an attack, silence has already done much of the work.

That ability helps explain why barred owls are among the most successful predators in the region.

It also reveals something many people do not realize.

Hunting is not simply a switch that turns on when a young owl leaves the nest.

Juvenile barred owls must learn. They practice. They miss opportunities. They refine the skills needed to locate, pursue, and capture prey in a complex environment. In wildlife rehabilitation settings, young barred owls that fail to develop those hunting skills cannot be successfully returned to the wild (Watson et al., 2023).

Instinct provides the foundation.

Experience builds the hunter.

Perhaps that is why barred owls have become such a familiar voice in the coastal night. Their success comes not from mastering a single prey species or hunting strategy, but from learning to adapt to whatever the swamp provides.

For the barred owl, the swamp is more than habitat.

It is a hunting ground, a classroom, and a home.

Great Horned Owl: Ruler of the Night

The night can be surprisingly noisy.

A barred owl calls from the swamp.

Tree frogs answer from the wetlands.

Crickets fill the spaces in between.

Then, sometimes, the woods erupt with alarm calls.

Crows mob during the day. Smaller birds call from hidden roosts after sunset. Even other predators seem suddenly aware that something has changed.

What happened?

Often, a great horned owl (Bubo virginianus) has arrived.

While many predators spend their lives worrying about what might hunt them, the great horned owl occupies a different position in the food web. Rabbits, squirrels, rodents, reptiles, birds, and even other predators can become prey. Where great horned owls occur, few animals completely ignore them (Artuso et al., 2020).

That includes other owls.

Barred owls, screech-owls, and other nocturnal hunters may alter their behavior when a great horned owl is nearby (Artuso et al., 2020). The question is not simply what the owl is hunting.

The question is whether anything wants to become its next opportunity.

Part of that success comes from versatility. Great horned owls hunt forests, wetlands, agricultural fields, suburban neighborhoods, and coastal habitats with equal confidence. Rather than specializing in a single prey species, they take advantage of whatever opportunities the landscape provides (Artuso et al., 2020).

Yet versatility alone does not explain why other animals react when one arrives.

Power does.

A great horned owl’s grip rivals that of a bald eagle. The force generated by its talons can exceed 270 newtons, allowing it to seize and control prey with remarkable efficiency (Ward et al., 2002). Those feet are capable of exerting tremendous force once they close around a target (Ward et al., 2002; Lingham-Soliar, 2014).

Combined with a wingspan approaching five feet, the result is a predator that commands attention even before it leaves the ground (Artuso et al., 2020).

Yet perhaps the most remarkable thing about a great horned owl is how quietly all of that power moves through the landscape.

Like other owls, the leading edges of their feathers break up airflow, reducing the sound of flight to nearly nothing. A bird carrying a wingspan wider than many people are tall can pass overhead with little more than a faint rush of air (Bachmann & Wagner, 2016).

Sometimes not even that.

The first indication that a great horned owl is nearby is often the reaction of everything else around it.

That silence becomes even more effective when paired with another adaptation.

Many people believe owls can rotate their heads completely around.

They cannot.

A great horned owl can rotate its head roughly 270 degrees, allowing it to scan much of the landscape without moving its body (Ward et al., 2002). Unlike our eyes, an owl’s eyes are largely fixed within the skull. To change its view, it must move its head (Ward et al., 2002; Lingham-Soliar, 2014).

For an ambush predator, that matters.

Every movement risks revealing its position. The ability to gather information while remaining nearly motionless allows the owl to watch far more than most animals realize.

And that may be the real reason so many creatures react when one arrives.

The great horned owl combines strength, silence, patience, and awareness in a way few predators can. By the time a rabbit, squirrel, snake, or even another owl realizes it is being watched, the great horned owl has often been watching for quite some time.

Perhaps that is why other animals seem to know when one is nearby.

The great horned owl is not simply another hunter in the night.

It is often the hunter watching the hunters.

Reading the Sky

At first glance, they all appear similar.

Large birds.

Broad wings.

Silhouettes against the sky.

Yet an osprey hovering above the water, a red-shouldered hawk watching from a fence post, a Mississippi kite chasing dragonflies, a vulture riding a thermal, and a barred owl moving through the darkness are not performing the same job.

They are reading the landscape in different ways.

The osprey watches the water.

The red-tailed hawk watches entire fields.

The Cooper’s hawk watches movement between trees.

The Mississippi kite watches the air itself.

Even the vultures, often dismissed as scavengers, are searching for clues that most of us never notice.

The next time a large bird catches your attention, resist the urge to identify it immediately.

Instead, watch what it does.

Does it hover?

Circle?

Perch?

Glide?

Disappear into the trees?

The answer often tells you as much as the feathers.

Because the sky is not filled with birds doing the same thing.

It is filled with specialists solving different problems.

And once you begin to notice those differences, the sky becomes a little easier to read.

At a distance, every raptor can seem like little more than a shape against the clouds. Spend enough time watching, however, and the sky becomes easier to read. | Image credit: A. Mitchell

References

Allen, L. L., Morrison, K. L., Scott, W. A., Shinn, S., Haltiner, A. M., & Doherty, M. J. (2018). Differences between stance and foot preference evident in osprey (Pandion haliaetus) fish holding during movement. Brain and Behavior, 8(11). https://doi.org/10.1002/brb3.1126

Arad, Z., Midtgard, U., & Bernstein, M. H. (1989). Thermoregulation in Turkey vultures. Vascular anatomy, arteriovenous heat exchange, and behavior. The Condor, 91(3), 505. https://doi.org/10.2307/1368103

Artuso, C., Houston, C. S., Smith, D. G., & Rohner, C. (2020). Great Horned Owl (Bubo virginianus). In Birds of the World (1.0th ed.). Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

Bachmann, T., & Wagner, H. (2016). Silent owl wings. Encyclopedia of Nanotechnology, 3659-3669. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-94-017-9780-1_267

Bierregaard, R. O., Livezey, K. B., Pyle, P., Mazur, K. M., & James, P. C. (2025). Barred Owl (Strix varia). In Birds of the World (2.1st ed.). Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

Bierregaard, R. O., Poole, A. F., Martell, M. S., Pyle, P., & Patten, M. A. (2020). Osprey (Pandion haliaetus). In Birds of the World (1.0th ed.). Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

Buckley, N. J., Kluever, B. M., Driver, R., & Rush, S. A. (2020). Black Vulture (Coragyps atratus). In Birds of the World (2.0th ed.). Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

Buehler, D. A. (2022). Bald Eagle (Haliaeetus leucocephalus). In Birds of the World (2.0th ed.). Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

DeVault, T. L., Beasley, J. C., Olson, Z. H., Moleón, M., Carrete, M., Margalida, A., & Sánchez-Zapata, J. A. (2016). Ecosystem Services Provided by Avian Scavengers. In Why Birds Matter: Avian Ecological Function and Ecosystem Services (pp. 235-270). University of Chicago Press.

Dykstra, C. R., Hays, J. L., & Crocoll, S. T. (2020). Red-shouldered Hawk (Buteo lineatus). In Birds of the World (1.0th ed.). Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

Ferguson-Lees, J., & Christie, D. A. (2001). Raptors of the world. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

Gehlbach, F. R. (2009). The eastern screech owl: Life history, ecology, and behavior in the suburbs and countryside. Texas A&M University Press.

Grigg, N. P., Krilow, J. M., Gutierrez-Ibanez, C., Wylie, D. R., Graves, G. R., & Iwaniuk, A. N. (2017). Anatomical evidence for scent guided foraging in the Turkey vulture. Scientific Reports, 7(1). https://doi.org/10.1038/s41598-017-17794-0

Kerlinger, P. (1989). Flight strategies of migrating hawks.

Kirk, D. A., Mossman, M. J., Bildstein, K. L., Naveda-Rodríguez, A., & Mallon, J. M. (2024). Turkey Vulture (Cathartes aura). In Birds of the World (2.0th ed.). Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

Lingham-Soliar, T. (2014). Feather structure, biomechanics and biomimetics: The incredible lightness of being. Journal of Ornithology, 155(2), 323-336. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10336-013-1038-0

Marti, C. D., Poole, A. F., Bevier, L. R., Bruce, M. D., Christie, D., Kirwan, G. M., Marks, J. S., & Pyle, P. (2024). American Barn Owl (Tyto furcata). In Birds of the World (1.1st ed.). Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

Odum, E. P., & Barrett, G. W. (2005). Fundamentals of ecology. Cengage Learning.

Parker, J. W. (2020). Mississippi Kite (Ictinia mississippiensis). In Birds of the World (1.0th ed.). Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

Payne, R. S. (1971). Acoustic location of prey by barn owls (Tyto Alba). Journal of Experimental Biology, 54(3), 535-573. https://doi.org/10.1242/jeb.54.3.535

Poole, A. F. (1989). Ospreys: A natural and unnatural history. Cambridge University Press.

Preston, C. R., & Beane, R. D. (2024). Red-tailed Hawk (Buteo jamaicensis). In Birds of the World (1.0th ed.). Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

Ritchison, G., Gehlbach, F. R., & Patten, M. A. (2020). Eastern Screech-Owl (Megascops asio). In Birds of the World (1.0th ed.). Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

Rosenfield, R. N., Madden, K. K., Bielefeldt, J., & Curtis, O. E. (2025). Cooper’s Hawk (Accipiter cooperii). In Birds of the World (1.2nd ed.). Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

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Ward, A. B., Weigl, P. D., & Conroy, R. M. (2002). Functional morphology of raptor Hindlimbs: Implications for resource partitioning. The Auk, 119(4), 1052-1063. https://doi.org/10.1093/auk/119.4.1052

Watson, W. A., Hofstadter, D. F., Jones, G. M., Kramer, H. A., Kryshak, N. F., Zulla, C. J.,

Whitmore, S. A., O’Rourke, V., Keane, J. J., Gutiérrez, R. J., & Peery, M. Z. (2023). Characterizing juvenile dispersal dynamics of invasive barred owls: Implications for management. Ornithological Applications, 126(1). https://doi.org/10.1093/ornithapp/duad061
June 20, 2026
Dolphins of Onslow County Waters: Ecology and Shared Shoreline

Dolphins of Onslow County: A Coastal Population

There is often a moment before you see them.

A breath breaks the air first — a soft exhale that sounds almost human — and then a dorsal fin lifts from the channel like a line drawn through moving water. The tide is falling. Gulls hover over the seam where current tightens. Fishermen pause mid-cast because everyone knows the rhythm: if the dolphins are working the edge, the fish are already gathering.

These encounters feel spontaneous, but they are not accidents. The dolphins that surface beside our piers, marsh creeks, and inlets are not anonymous travelers passing through. Many bottlenose dolphins show long-term site fidelity and structured community patterns in estuarine systems, returning to the same places across years (Urian et al., 2009; Wells, 2014). To live on this shoreline is to share space with minds moving just below the surface — residents of the tidal edge.

Who they are: a coastal population

The dolphins most frequently seen along Onslow County’s waters are common bottlenose dolphins (Tursiops truncatus), a species whose “coastal” lives can look very different from “offshore” lives. Across the western North Atlantic, genetic studies show fine-scale population structure that can separate dolphins using nearshore coastal waters from dolphins using inshore estuarine waters (Rosel et al., 2009). More broadly, integrative work continues to support meaningful coastal vs offshore divergence in the region (Costa et al., 2022).

In estuaries, photo-identification research (matching dorsal-fin markings) repeatedly shows that bottlenose dolphins can form discrete social communities with limited spatial overlap — a pattern consistent with long-term residency and local familiarity (Urian et al., 2009). In practical terms, the dolphin a child watches from a dock in spring may be seen again the following winter, and again the next year: not a rumor, but a biological possibility supported by long-term studies of resident dolphins elsewhere on the coast (Wells, 2014).

Photo-identification doesn’t always rely solely on human matching of fin shapes; new tools such as machine learning are being developed to improve accuracy in identifying individual dolphins and whales in the wild. For example, researchers in Hawaii are using advanced algorithms to distinguish individuals from large photo libraries of dorsal fins. As technology improves, methods like photo-ID only get more reliable — which means studies of habitat overlap and seasonal return become more precise over time.

An inside look at how scientists “read” dorsal fin shapes and markings to track the same dolphins over time.

Reading the geometry of the estuary

Dolphins do not simply occupy estuaries; they interpret them.

Tidal channels function as moving architecture. Falling tides compress fish schools toward narrowing exits. Sandbars redirect flow into faster seams. Marsh edges trap prey against shallow gradients. Dolphins exploit these features with precision, repeatedly targeting conditions that make prey capture more efficient (Barros & Wells, 1998; Torres & Read, 2009).

This is one reason dolphins so often appear where the water “looks alive” — at convergence lines, inlet throats, and channel bends. In Florida Bay, for example, foraging tactics are mapped onto habitat features that define where dolphins have spent their time, thus turning behavior into geography (Torres & Read, 2009). What seems like play from shore can be highly strategic predation.

Bottlenose dolphins breaching off Seaview Pier, N. Topsail Beach, North Carolina. The arc of the body and column spray reflect the mechanics of propulsion – force directed through the tail, momentum carried into the air. | Photo credit: Howard Crumpler Photography, 2026

Reader Question:

Why do dolphins seem more active on rainy or overcast days?

Weather, light, and the illusion of play

You may notice that dolphins seem especially active on overcast or rainy days — surfacing more frequently, breaching, or moving in tight arcs through wind-rippled water. It can look like preference, even mood. But dolphins are responding less to cloud cover than to what cloud cover does to the water.

When the sky darkens, baitfish don’t stay arranged the same way. They may bunch together or rise toward the surface. For a predator already working those upper layers, that shift can make hunting more efficient (Benoit-Bird & Au, 2003). Wind and rain can also stir the surface and cloud the water, changing who sees whom first (De Robertis et al., 2003).

There is also a perceptual component. Overcast skies reduce glare, making dorsal fins and splashes easier for human observers to detect. Wind-textured water highlights movement. What appears to be “more play” may sometimes be improved visibility — a reminder that observer experience and animal behavior are not always the same phenomenon.

In short, dolphins are responding to ecological conditions. The weather alters the water; the water alters the fish.

Two bottlenose dolphins break the surface beneath the gray horizon off Surf City, North Carolina. Overcast light and wind-roughened water can change how fish move – and how easily we notice the dolphins following them. | Photo credit: Johnny Provost, Jr., 2025

Communication and social intelligence

Bottlenose dolphins have been studied for decades not just because they are charismatic, but because their social lives depend on constant communication in a shifting, three-dimensional world. One of the strongest findings to emerge from that research is the existence of signature whistles — individually distinctive call types that function as learned identity signals, something very much like the individual name a dolphin goes by within its community (Janik & Sayigh, 2013).

Social learning runs just as deep. Some dolphin foraging habits spread from one animal to another rather than through genetics — passed along socially, a rare pattern among nonhuman species (Krützen et al., 2005). Mothers and calves stay together for years, giving calves time to learn not just how to hunt, but where — which channels to follow, which bends of water hold fish (Wells, 2014).

In some populations elsewhere in the world, dolphins even use tools — carrying marine sponges on their rostrums while foraging or trapping fish inside empty shells — behaviors that are socially learned and culturally transmitted (Krützen et al., 2005).

That learning shapes how dolphins fit into the estuary. In many tidal systems they sit near the top of the local food web, influencing the fish communities beneath them. Yet beyond those protected waters, they are not beyond risk. Large sharks prey on dolphins, placing them within a broader coastal hierarchy where even predators can become prey (Heithaus, 2001). The role shifts with scale. The ecology remains layered.

Two bottlenose dolphins surfacing together off Seaview Pier, N. Topsail Beach, North Carolina. Close positioning and timing are hallmarks of the complex social bonds that define dolphin societies. | Photo credit: Howard Crumpler Photography, 2026

Dolphins are not guardians

Popular culture has assigned dolphins a role they never chose: protector. People repeat a comforting shoreline myth — “If you’re scared of sharks, find the dolphins; they’ll protect you.” But that story is not grounded in how dolphins behave in the wild.

Bottlenose dolphins are powerful predators. They compete, establish dominance hierarchies, and can deliver forceful blows when defending calves or asserting space. Dolphin–shark interactions occur, but they are not “rescue missions” staged for humans; they are ecological encounters shaped by risk, competition, and opportunity (Heithaus, 2001).

Wild dolphins are also capable of injuring people. Research examining human–dolphin interactions show that close approaches — and especially feeding wild dolphins — increase the likelihood of risky contact and harmful outcomes for both dolphins and people (Cunningham-Smith et al., 2006; Vail, 2016). Over time, those interactions leave visible consequences. Long-term data from Sarasota Bay show that dolphins who have learned to associate people with food are more likely to carry injuries linked to boats and fishing gear (Christiansen et al., 2016).

The danger is not that dolphins are “evil.” The danger is assuming they share human intentions.

Swimming near a pod does not create a protective shield. Dolphins are not lifeguards. They are wild animals navigating their own priorities in a shared environment. Respecting that boundary is what allows coexistence.

A bottlenose dolphin pursuing prey near a recreational vessel in a waterway in Surf City, North Carolina. Foraging behavior can bring dolphins into close proximity with boats – not as companions, but as active predators focused on fish. | Video credit: Cynthia Dirosse, 2024

Winter dolphins

A persistent assumption is that dolphins vanish when the water cools. In reality, seasonal distribution can be more nuanced — changing with prey, temperature, and coastal movement patterns rather than following a simple on/off presence.

Along the mid-Atlantic coast, research shows that bottlenose dolphins shift their movements with the seasons, appearing in different areas at different times of year (Torres et al., 2005). Studies focused on estuarine dolphins in southern North Carolina document similar seasonal patterns closer to home (Silva et al., 2020). From shore, those changes can look like disappearance. But winter quiet does not always mean absence. It may simply mean dolphins are working deeper channels or less visible pathways beyond the easy reach of our eyes.

The estuary in winter is quieter, but not empty.

Dorsal fins in winter light off Surf City, North Carolina. Dolphins may appear less active this time of year, but changes in light, water depth, and travel corridors often influence what we notice from shore. | Photo credit: Surf City Parks, Recreation, and Tourism, 2017

Living beside them

Living near dolphins is a privilege — and it places us within the same waters they navigate. Vessel traffic, fishing gear, and repeated close approaches can shape the lives of animals that live for decades and raise calves slowly (Wells, 2014). Studies of dolphins that have been fed or closely approached by people show that these interactions can shift behavior, making dolphins more likely to approach boats and increasing the risk of injury and conflict (Vail, 2016). Distance, in that sense, preserves the patterns people come to watch.

The presence of dolphins is not guaranteed. It is a sign that the system still functions — prey, water quality, shoreline structure, and the complex social knowledge dolphins carry from year to year. As long-lived predators near the top of the food web, they are indicator species, reflecting the condition of the waters they inhabit — estuary, inlet, and nearshore coast alike.

And so when a dorsal fin rises beyond the channel markers, it means more than a moment of spectacle. It means the currents are still working, the fish are still moving, and the layered relationships that shape this shoreline are still holding.

There is always more to learn about dolphins than fits in a single post. For those who’d like to go further, this episode of the All Creatures Podcast offers a thoughtful exploration of their biology and behavior.

References

Barros, N. B., Wells, R. S., & Barros, N. B. (1998). Prey and feeding patterns of resident bottlenose dolphins (Tursiops truncatus) in Sarasota Bay, Florida. Journal of Mammalogy, 79(3), 1045. https://doi.org/10.2307/1383114

Benoit-Bird, K. J., & Au, W. W. (2003). Prey dynamics affect foraging by a pelagic predator (Stenella longirostris) over a range of spatial and temporal scales. Behavioral Ecology and Sociobiology, 53(6), 364-373. https://doi.org/10.1007/s00265-003-0585-4

Christiansen, F., McHugh, K. A., Bejder, L., Siegal, E. M., Lusseau, D., McCabe, E. B., Lovewell, G., & Wells, R. S. (2016). Food provisioning increases the risk of injury in a long-lived marine top predator. Royal Society Open Science, 3(12), 160560. https://doi.org/10.1098/rsos.160560

Costa, A. P., Mcfee, W., Wilcox, L. A., Archer, F. I., & Rosel, P. E. (2022). The common bottlenose dolphin (Tursiops truncatus) ecotypes of the western North Atlantic revisited: An integrative taxonomic investigation supports the presence of distinct species. Zoological Journal of the Linnean Society, 196(4), 1608-1636. https://doi.org/10.1093/zoolinnean/zlac025

Cunningham-Smith, P., Colbert, D. E., Wells, R. S., & Speakman, T. (2006). Evaluation of human interactions with a provisioned wild bottlenose dolphin (<I>Tursiops truncatus</I>) near Sarasota Bay, Florida, and efforts to curtail the interactions. Aquatic Mammals, 32(3), 346-356. https://doi.org/10.1578/am.32.3.2006.346

De Robertis, A., Ryer, C. H., Veloza, A., & Brodeur, R. D. (2003). Differential effects of turbidity on prey consumption of piscivorous and planktivorous fish. Canadian Journal of Fisheries and Aquatic Sciences, 60(12), 1517-1526. https://doi.org/10.1139/f03-123

Heithaus, M. R. (2001). Shark attacks on bottlenose dolphins (TURSIOPS ADUNCUS) in Shark Bay, Western Australia: Attack rate, bite scar frequencies, and attack seasonality. Marine Mammal Science, 17(3), 526-539. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1748-7692.2001.tb01002.x

Janik, V. M., & Sayigh, L. S. (2013). Communication in bottlenose dolphins: 50 years of signature whistle research. Journal of Comparative Physiology A, 199(6), 479-489. https://doi.org/10.1007/s00359-013-0817-7

Kalahele, K. (2023, July 21). You’ve heard of facial recognition for humans, but what about dolphins and whales? Hawaii News Now. https://www.hawaiinewsnow.com/2023/07/21/uh-researchers-develop-new-face-id-technology-identify-dolphins-whales-wild/

Krützen, M., Mann, J., Heithaus, M. R., Connor, R. C., Bejder, L., & Sherwin, W. B. (2005). Cultural transmission of tool use in bottlenose dolphins. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 102(25), 8939-8943. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.0500232102

Rosel, P. E., Hansen, L., & Hohn, A. A. (2009). Restricted dispersal in a continuously distributed marine species: Common bottlenose dolphinsTursiops truncatusin coastal waters of the western North Atlantic. Molecular Ecology, 18(24), 5030-5045. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1365-294x.2009.04413.x

Silva, D. (2020). Abundance and seasonal distribution of the southern North Carolina estuarine system stock (USA) of common bottlenose dolphins (Tursiops truncatus). IWC Journal of Cetacean Research and Management, 21(1), 33-43. https://doi.org/10.47536/jcrm.v21i1.175

Torres, L. G., McLellan, W. A., Meagher, E., & Pabst, D. A. (2023). Seasonal distribution and relative abundance of bottlenose dolphins, Tursiops truncatus, along the US Mid-Atlantic coast. J. Cetacean Res. Manage, 7(2), 153-161. https://doi.org/10.47536/jcrm.v7i2.748

Torres, L. G., & Read, A. J. (2009). Where to catch a fish? The influence of foraging tactics on the ecology of bottlenose dolphins (Tursiops truncatus) in Florida Bay, Florida. Marine Mammal Science, 25(4), 797-815. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1748-7692.2009.00297.x

Urian, K. W., Hofmann, S., Wells, R. S., & Read, A. J. (2009). Fine‐scale population structure of bottlenose dolphins (Tursiops truncatus) in Tampa Bay, Florida. Marine Mammal Science, 25(3), 619-638. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1748-7692.2009.00284.x

Vail, C. S. (2016). An overview of increasing incidents of bottlenose dolphin harassment in the Gulf of Mexico and possible solutions. Frontiers in Marine Science, 3. https://doi.org/10.3389/fmars.2016.00110

Wells, R. S. (2013). Social structure and life history of bottlenose dolphins near Sarasota Bay, Florida: Insights from four decades and five generations. Primatology Monographs, 149-172.

February 21, 2026
The Leftovers: What Happens to Summer’s Prey When the Big Fish Leave?

The Quiet Season Begins

When the red drum, flounder, and summer sharks follow the cooling tides offshore, Onslow County’s estuaries fall quiet. The flashy chases fade, and the splashes that once rippled through the creeks give way to stillness. But the story doesn’t end. Beneath November’s calm water, the estuary begins to rewrite itself.

The absence of its top hunters leaves behind both energy and opportunity — a banquet for the small and the overlooked. The currents no longer echo with the heavy pulse of pursuit. Instead, what remains is a more deliberate rhythm — a slow exchange between detritus, crabs, and the smaller fish that endure the cold months ahead.

Winter in the New River Estuary: The Vacancy in the Food Web

Every migration leaves an ecological vacancy. When red drum and southern flounder depart, they take with them both predatory pressure and nutrient export. The estuary briefly relaxes its guard. Prey fish, shrimp, and crabs experience a momentary release from predation from top predator populations that cause a cascade that momentarily alters predation pressure on lower-level prey (Clark et al., 2003).

In this lull, energy that once fueled apex biomass lingers in the system, stored in crustaceans and schooling fish that escaped the hunt (Baird et al., 1998). The estuary, ever adaptive, redistributes that energy downward. Blue crabs (Callinectes sapidus) and juvenile spot (Leiostomus xanthurus) surge in number, exploiting the leftovers of summer’s feast (Allen et al., 2024). The marsh becomes a recycling ground — energy looping through smaller players instead of flowing outward to the sea.

Late-fall estuarine food web diagram showing energy flow from detritus to shrimp, fish, and mesopredators.

The Winter Guardians

But not all predators have gone. When the warm-water hunters leave, colder visitors arrive. Along the inlets and nearshore waters of Onslow Bay, Atlantic spiny dogfish (Squalus acanthias) drift in with the falling temperatures. They are the quiet inheritors of the season — small sharks with silver eyes and slate-gray backs, moving in disciplined schools just offshore.

Atlantic spiny dogfish (Squalus acanthius) — the “winter guardians” — patrol coastal waters when larger predators have departed, sustaining the rhythm of predation. | Photo credit: Andy Murch

Where the big sharks of summer — sandbars, blacktips, and bulls — have vanished southward or deeper, the dogfish remain. Their bodies are built for cold water, thriving where others slow (Carlson et al., 2014). And while their size may not inspire awe, their purpose is no less vital: they fill the empty seats at the top of the table.

Dogfish are mesopredators, but in winter they act as temporary apex hunters, patrolling the inlet and inner shelf where menhaden, herring, and squid still linger (Carlson et al., 2014). Their presence keeps the ecosystem in motion. They thin out the schools that might otherwise explode in number, preventing imbalance and decay. Like patient custodians, they maintain the continuity of predation, ensuring that energy continues to flow up and down the food web even in the cold months (Prugh et al., 2009).

In their absence, the estuary might collapse inward — prey would overgraze, detritus would pile, and oxygen would vanish from the mud. But the dogfish, efficient and tireless, keep the waters breathing.

Crabs and Killifish Take the Stage

Blue crabs roam the winter marsh, feeding on detritus and benthic invertebrates. Their slow foraging helps recycle nutrients and sustain the estuary’s energy balance through the cold season.

Within the estuary itself, the smaller actors continue their work. By December, the New River’s mudflats and marsh creeks host a quieter cast — mummichogs (Fundulus heteroclitus), sheepshead minnows (Cyprinodon variegatus), and grass shrimp (Palaemonetes pugio). These resident species, often unnoticed, now carry the estuary’s metabolism on their backs.

They thrive on detritus and microbial mats, converting decay into new life (Kneib, 2015). Blue crabs roam like slow-moving janitors, shifting through sediment to feed on worms and organic matter (Kennedy & Cronin, 2007). Each movement releases trapped nutrients, fueling microbial blooms that will later nourish the first plankton of spring.

While the spiny dogfish patrol the edges of the continental shelf, these smaller species sustain the inner heart of the estuary. Their labor keeps the water alive long after the glamour of migration fades.

Nutrient Loops and Winter Stability

Without large predators, the estuary depends on microbial and detrital loops to keep its energy cycling. Up to 70% of carbon transfer between November and February occurs through benthic detritivory and microbial remineralization rather than direct predation (Friedrichs & Perry, 2001).

This invisible economy sustains the overwintering fish and crustaceans — the leftovers that, in time, will become the first meal of spring’s returning predators. It’s the estuary’s savings account: energy stored as biomass and sediment, ready to be withdrawn when the tides warm again.

When winter quiets the hunt, the estuary turns inward. Instead of predators driving the cycle, nutrients move through the mud itself — microbes and detritivores recycling what’s left behind. This unseen flow keeps the New River alive until spring’s return (adapted from Erler et al., 2020).

A Resilient Feast

By January, the estuary seems dormant to the casual eye, but beneath its glassy surface, life reorganizes with quiet precision. Crabs clean the table. Dogfish patrol the edge. Minnows and shrimp sift through the silt for remnants of summer.

The New River continues to breathe — slower, deeper, deliberate.
When the big fish return with the first warm tides, the table is set once more, and the energy once left behind has been transformed — recycled through countless small mouths and patient currents into the promise of another season’s chase.

References

Allen, D. M., Govoni, J. J., Able, K. W., Buckel, J. A., Hale, E. A., Hilton, E. J., Kellison, G. T., Targett, T. E., Taylor, J. C., & Walsh, H. J. (2024). Long-term dynamics of larval and early juvenile spot (Leiostomus xanthurus) off the U.S. East Coast: Relating ocean origins, estuarine Ingress, and changing environmental conditions. Fishery Bulletin, 122(4), 162-185. https://doi.org/10.7755/fb.122.4.3

Baird, D., Luczkovich, J., & Christian, R. (1998). Assessment of spatial and temporal variability in ecosystem attributes of the St marks national wildlife refuge, Apalachee Bay, Florida. Estuarine, Coastal and Shelf Science, 47(3), 329-349. https://doi.org/10.1006/ecss.1998.0360

Carlson, A. E., Hoffmayer, E. R., Tribuzio, C. A., & Sulikowski, J. A. (2014). The use of satellite tags to redefine movement patterns of spiny dogfish (Squalus acanthias) along the U.S. East Coast: Implications for fisheries management. PLoS ONE, 9(7), e103384. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0103384

Clark, K. L., Ruiz, G. M., & Hines, A. H. (2003). Diel variation in predator abundance, predation risk and prey distribution in shallow-water estuarine habitats. Journal of Experimental Marine Biology and Ecology, 287(1), 37-55. https://doi.org/10.1016/s0022-0981(02)00439-2

Foster, S. Q., & Fulweiler, R. W. (2014). Spatial and historic variability of benthic nitrogen cycling in an anthropogenically impacted Estuary. Frontiers in Marine Science, 1. https://doi.org/10.3389/fmars.2014.00056

Friedrichs, C. T., & Perry, J. E. (2001). Tidal Salt Marsh Morphodynamics: A Synthesis. Journal of Coastal Research, (27), 7-37. https://www.jstor.org/stable/25736162

Kennedy, V. S., & Cronin, L. E. (2007). The blue crab: Callinectes Sapidus. Maryland Sea Grant College University of Maryland.

Kneib, R. T. (1986). The role of Fundulus heteroclitus in salt marsh trophic dynamics. American Zoologist, 26(1), 259-269. https://doi.org/10.1093/icb/26.1.259

Prugh, L. R., Stoner, C. J., Epps, C. W., Bean, W. T., Ripple, W. J., Laliberte, A. S., & Brashares, J. S. (2009). The rise of the Mesopredator. BioScience, 59(9), 779-791. https://doi.org/10.1525/bio.2009.59.9.9

November 29, 2025
Thanksgiving Tides: New River Inlet Fish Migration in Fall

A Different Kind of Thanksgiving Journey

Each November, when highways fill with travelers heading home for Thanksgiving, the waters of Onslow County’s New River Estuary host a quieter kind of migration. Beneath the surface, schools of silvery menhaden, golden spot, croaker, and even small sharks begin the New River Inlet fish migration, drawn by instincts older than any holiday tradition. The tides quicken. Water cools. Marsh grasses brown and whisper in the wind. And with every falling tide, the river seems to breathe outward, carrying its pilgrims toward the sea.

The Gate Between River and Sea

New River Inlet is not simply a passage between Sneads Ferry and North Topsail Beach—it is a living threshold.

The New River winds toward its inlet, where marsh channels, sandbars, and tidal creeks converge into a single hydrodynamic corridor — the living gateway between Onslow County’s estuary and the open Atlantic.

As autumn advances, the estuary’s chemistry shifts: cooler water holds more oxygen, salinity rises with lower rainfall, and winds begin steering surface currents southward. These changes open a corridor that hundreds of thousands of fish follow instinctively from the creeks to the ocean shelf.

For species like spot (Leiostomus xanthurus) and Atlantic croaker (Micropogonias undulatus), this downstream journey completes the first half of a circular life cycle. After spending spring and summer feeding in the calm nurseries of the estuary, they now join the coastal current to overwinter in deeper, warmer water—traveling the same path their parents once took (Odell et al., 2017).

This path is more than instinct. It follows the physical architecture of the river itself—the deep, tidally flushed channels that connect Stones Bay and the main river to the inlet’s thalweg. When autumn winds push water seaward, these channels become a hydrodynamic migration corridor, a natural conveyor that funnels fish from the upper river toward the mouth (Odell et al., 2017).

The inlet becomes a moving parade: ripples flashing silver, gulls diving, and every outgoing tide pulling another wave of life toward the horizon.

Menhaden: The Silver Procession

A vast school of Atlantic menhaden (Brevoortia tyrannus) moves as one body near the surface — a living current of silver that links the New River Estuary to the open Atlantic each fall.

Among the first to leave are Atlantic menhaden (Brevoortia tyrannus), the shimmering filter-feeders that fuel much of the coastal food web. Juveniles spend the warmer months feeding in the upper river, turning sunlight and plankton into pure energy. When the water dips below 18 °C, they form tight schools and funnel through the inlet, their bodies reflecting the low winter sun like coins scattered across the tide.

Studies of otolith chemistry show that these migrants come from multiple estuarine nurseries along the Atlantic seaboard, each contributing recruits to the coast-wide population (Anstead et al., 2016). Their exodus through the New River Inlet is not just a local event—it’s part of a continental rhythm that keeps the Atlantic alive.

Beyond the inlet, menhaden rarely swim straight into the deep. Instead, they travel through the nearshore transition zone, staying within roughly 10 kilometers of the coast, guided by southward longshore currents driven by seasonal winds (Lozano et al., 2013). Here they join massive coastal schools that drift toward Cape Fear and beyond, remaining within waters of 12–18 °C—their preferred thermal band. Each year, these moving rivers of fish carry the New River’s energy down the Atlantic coast like a living current of light.

Spot and Croaker: The Drummers of the Migration

Spot (Leiostomus xanthurus) and Atlantic croaker (Micropogonias undulatus) — schooling estuarine “drummers” whose late-fall migration carries the New River’s summer energy seaward through New River Inlet.

Close behind move the “drums”—spot (Leiostomus xanthurus) and Atlantic croaker (Micropogonias undulatus)—so named for the sound they make vibrating muscles against their swim bladders. By late autumn, they too feel the pull of the current. Their bodies, now heavy from a summer of estuarine abundance, drift downstream in schools that seem to hum with the low percussion of their name.

In coastal surveys, researchers have traced these migrations from estuarine creeks to the continental shelf, where the fish spend the winter in relative warmth before returning north in spring (Odell et al., 2017). In ecological terms, it’s an energy transfer: the nutrients once locked in the mud and detritus of the New River now exported to the open sea.

Once through the inlet, spot and croaker follow two primary routes—some hugging the coast within the surf zone, others settling on the inner continental shelf at 15–35 meters depth. They drift southward along the Carolina Coastal Current, a steady, wind-driven flow that connects Onslow Bay to warmer waters off South Carolina and Georgia. Beneath the surface, these fish form vast, undulating layers—millions of tiny drummers keeping rhythm with the season.

Juvenile Sharks: The Shadow Pilgrims

Juvenile coastal sharks glide over a sandy inlet floor — quiet travelers of the New River system, following ancient tidal cues that guide them from sheltered estuaries to the open Atlantic.

Following the smaller fish come the quiet shadows—juvenile coastal sharks moving through the inlet on their own pilgrimage. Tagging studies across North Carolina reveal that blacktip, sandbar, and bull sharks use shallow estuarine margins as summer nurseries before shifting offshore in late fall when the water cools (Bangley et al., 2018; Rulifson & Bangley, 2015).

In the turbid water at the inlet’s mouth, these young predators trace invisible highways along sandbars and channels, following the scent of prey schools that have already departed. Many continue to ride the same southward current as the drum and menhaden but at greater depth—sometimes reaching the outer continental shelf (30–80 meters) where the water remains above 18 °C. For a few short weeks, river and sea mingle in one shared migration—prey, predator, and current moving together through the same watery passage.

The Importance of the Journey

The departure is not random. Temperature, daylight, and shifting prey availability synchronize this movement. When shrimp and plankton thin in the creeks, the fish follow the energy gradient seaward. In doing so, they maintain the seasonal connectivity that defines an estuary’s health: nutrients exported from the marsh become the foundation of offshore food webs, feeding mackerel, tuna, and seabirds far beyond the New River’s mouth (Lozano et al., 2013).

Alongshore winds along the North Carolina coast generate offshore surface flow through Ekman transport. This movement is balanced by deeper onshore currents and localized upwelling, circulating nutrients and carrying estuarine water and organisms seaward. Adapted from Job Dronkers (2025), Coastal Wiki.

This corridor of movement also depends on the forces of wind and tide. During late fall, northwest winds push surface waters offshore through Ekman transport, enhancing the ebb flow that draws fish outward. Each tide functions as a breath of the estuary—an exhalation of life—carrying energy from the marshes to the sea (Odell et al., 2017).

This is the river’s gift to the ocean—the annual offering that ensures what leaves the estuary returns as new life months later.

A Thanksgiving of Currents

North Topsail Beach at sunset | Photo Credit: David Ogorman

If seen from above, the late-autumn water resembles a conveyor of light: streaks of silver menhaden, bronze drum, and dark shark fins blending into the green-blue inlet plume. Each species is a pilgrim, carried by tides instead of highways, guided by magnetic fields instead of maps. Their departure is as old as the coastline itself—a Thanksgiving procession written in currents and instincts rather than calendars. For those standing on the dunes at North Topsail Beach, the scene feels both ancient and immediate: the hush of wind, the roll of the tide, and somewhere beneath, the silent travelers heading home.

References

Anstead, K. A., Schaffler, J. J., & Jones, C. M. (2016). Coast-wide nursery contribution of new recruits to the population of Atlantic menhaden. Transactions of the American Fisheries Society, 145(3), 627–636. https://doi.org/10.1080/00028487.2016.1150345

Bangley, C. W., Paramore, L., Dedman, S., & Rulifson, R. A. (2018). Delineation and mapping of coastal shark habitat within a shallow lagoonal estuary. PLOS ONE, 13(4), e0195221. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0195221

Lozano, C. J., Houde, E. D., & Severin, K. P. (2013). Factors contributing to variability in larval ingress of Atlantic menhaden (Brevoortia tyrannus) to Chesapeake Bay. Estuarine, Coastal and Shelf Science, 118, 1–10. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ecss.2012.12.018

Odell, J., Adams, D. H., Boutin, B., Collier, W., Deary, A., Havel, L. N., Johnson, J. A. Jr., Midway, S. R., Murray, J., Smith, K., Wilke, K. M., & Yuen, M. W. (2017). Atlantic Sciaenid habitats: A review of utilization, threats, and recommendations for conservation, management, and research (Habitat Management Series No. 14). Atlantic States Marine Fisheries Commission. https://asmfc.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/12/HMS14_AtlanticSciaenidHabitats_Winter2017.pdf

Rulifson, R. A., & Bangley, C. W. (2015). Quantifying estuarine habitat use by multiple coastal shark species (NOAA Technical Report). NOAA Institutional Repository. https://repository.library.noaa.gov/view/noaa/46115

November 21, 2025
Gratitude for Marsh Predators: How Egrets, Herons, and Fish-Hunting Birds Shape the New River
A Thanksgiving for the Watchers at the Water’s Edge

By late November, the New River of Onslow County—the slow, tidal estuary rising in Jacksonville and emptying into the Atlantic at New River Inlet—transforms. The grasses brown, the water clarifies, and the familiar pulse of summer predators fades. Flounder slip offshore. Red drum feed less frequently. Sharks leave the inlet behind in search of warmer currents.

But along the marsh edges, another group of predators steps forward.

Great egrets, snowy egrets, tricolored herons, great blue herons, kingfishers, cormorants, pelicans, and the few ospreys that overwinter become the defining hunters of the cold season. Their presence is not merely ornamental—they keep the estuary functioning when the fish and sharks of summer retreat.

This is a season to be thankful for the feathered predators who bridge water and land, carrying the New River through winter.

Egrets: The Marsh’s Quiet Engineers

Snowy Egrets and Great Egrets share the New River’s marsh edges, but their size, bill color, and foraging styles shape the estuary differently. Together, these two “marsh engineers” help regulate small fish and crustaceans throughout the colder months. | Photo Mia McPherson

Great blue (Ardea alba) and snowy egrets (Egretta thula) line the mudbanks of the New River like pale sentinels during late fall. Their precision hunting—patient standing, slow stepping, sudden striking—remains one of the most effective predatory strategies in shallow water. But egrets do much more than remove prey from the system.

Their feet stir the marsh. With every step, they oxygenate the upper sediment and dislodge hidden invertebrates—worms, amphipods, and tiny crabs. This stirring, known as bioturbation, is essential when larger predators leave for the season. It keeps nutrients moving upward through the food web instead of becoming locked in low-oxygen mud pockets (Green & Elmberg, 2014).

Egrets also function as indicator species. Their presence in good numbers along the New River—especially snowy egrets—signals healthy populations of juvenile fish and crustaceans, as these birds are sensitive to reductions in prey availability and water-quality decline (Gawlik, 2002).

In winter, when the big fish leave, the egrets’ quiet engineering keeps the marsh breathing.

Herons: Sentinels of the Shallows

A Great Blue Heron wades through the quiet shallows in North Carolina, its slow, deliberate steps stirring life from the sediment. In winter, this patient hunter becomes one of the estuary’s most influential predators.

Herons are the deliberate hunters of the New River’s cooler months. Great blue herons (Ardea herodias) stalk deeper edge-waters near Wilson Bay and Stones Bay, while tricolored and green herons hunt the narrow creeks and flooded grass near Sneads Ferry.

Their predatory pressure plays a critical stabilizing role.

When red drum, flounder, and juvenile sharks reduce feeding or migrate offshore, herons become the primary top-down regulators in shallow zones. Without them, schooling fish such as killifish and silversides can become overly abundant and overgraze algae mats, uproot detrital layers, and reduce habitat for invertebrates (Caldwell & Gawlik, 2020).

Herons prevent this imbalance, maintaining the delicate structure of marsh edges through the winter lull.

They are also highly sensitive to habitat degradation. If marsh edges are destroyed or water quality declines, herons disappear quickly—making them early warning signals of ecosystem stress.

When the estuary grows quiet, herons hold the line.

Kingfishers: The River’s Aerial Regulators

The New River bends—particularly between Jacksonville and Camp Lejeune—echo with the rattling call of the belted kingfisher (Megaceryle alcyon). These birds hunt where no heron can reach: suspended midair, diving into deeper channels for small mullet, anchovies, and menhaden.

Their role is uniquely important in winter.

Kingfishers distribute prey movement across the river. Their dive-bombing predation prevents baitfish from clustering into dense, oxygen-demanding schools. This reduces the chance of hypoxic pockets and helps keep prey species spreading through multiple river habitats, supporting overall food-web stability (Green & Elmberg, 2014).

As indicator species, kingfishers require:
- Clear water,
- Steep undisturbed banks for burrow nests, and
- Intact riparian vegetation.
A decline in their numbers often indicates erosion, turbidity, or human disturbance along the New River corridor.

When water clears and fish slow down, kingfishers regulate the mid-channel flow.

Cormorants & Pelicans: Divers of the Deep Channels

Double-crested cormorants and brown pelicans share the New River’s deeper channels, one diving beneath the surface and the other striking from above—two winter hunters shaping the river’s mid-channel food web. | Photo credits: © Patty Teague and Walker Golder

Where the marsh deepens toward New River Inlet, winter belongs to the divers.

Double-crested cormorants (Phalacrocorax auritus) gather in rafts, plunging beneath the surface in coordinated group hunts. Brown pelicans (Pelecanus accidentalis), though more numerous in summer, often overwinter near the inlet, diving from above for surface schooling fish.

These two species maintain control over mid-water prey populations during a time when bluefish, larger trout, and sharks are absent.

Cormorants keep cold-tolerant fish like anchovies and menhaden from becoming hyperabundant—preventing prey schools from stripping plankton layers or concentrating into stressed, oxygen-poor pockets. Pelicans, meanwhile, remove weak or diseased fish from the surface, helping maintain water quality and reducing pathogen spread (Green & Elmberg, 2014).

In winter, when predation usually thins, the divers take up the mantle offshore.

Ospreys: Winter’s Remaining Apex Hunters

An osprey returns to its nest with a freshly caught fish—one of the last true apex hunters still patrolling the New River as winter approaches. | Photo Credit: Steve Gorin

Most ospreys (Pandion haliaetus) migrate south, but a handful stay near New River Inlet and the Onslow County coastline each winter. Those that remain become the estuary’s apex aerial predators, taking mullet, juvenile trout, and medium-sized fish that no other bird consistently targets.

Their presence means something.
Ospreys are recognized worldwide as indicators of estuarine health, reflecting the state of fish recruitment, water clarity, and shoreline integrity (Green & Elmberg, 2014).

If ospreys disappear, it often signals a breakdown already underway.

Even in winter, they serve as a reminder of the estuary’s resilience—and vulnerability.

When the Feathered Predators Are Lost

When fish-hunting birds decline, the system changes quickly:
- Prey fish populations spike and overgraze marsh surfaces.
- Detritus accumulates, creating low-oxygen mud layers.
- Nutrient cycling slows, as birds supply essential nitrogen and phosphorus.
- Marsh plants thin, increasing erosion along the New River’s edges.
- Winter loses its predators, leaving the estuary unregulated until spring.
Their disappearance is not cosmetic—it is structural.

These birds are the framework that holds the winter ecosystem together.

A Season to Give Thanks

As fall deepens into the quiet months, the New River’s story becomes one of subtle but powerful relationships. Egrets stir the mud and release life into motion. Herons regulate the shallows. Kingfishers keep the channels moving. Cormorants and pelicans manage the deeper waters. Ospreys, if they stay, rule the sky.

They do not roar or thrash or leap.
They shape the estuary one step, one strike, and one dive at a time.

This Thanksgiving, the gratitude belongs to them as well—the birds who carry the New River through winter and keep the connection between land and sea alive.

References

Able, K. W., & Fodrie, F. J. (2015). Fish habitat use in salt marshes: Linking ecology and conservation. Marine Ecology Progress Series, 527, 1–5. https://doi.org/10.3354/meps11344

Caldwell, A. W., & Gawlik, D. E. (2020). Wading birds as top predators in shallow estuarine food webs: Behavioral influence on fish distribution. Estuaries and Coasts, 43(6), 1273–1286. https://doi.org/10.1007/s12237-020-00734-1

Gawlik, D. E. (2002). The effects of prey availability on the foraging behavior of wading birds. Ecological Monographs, 72(3), 329–346. https://doi.org/10.1890/0012-9615

Green, A. J., & Elmberg, J. (2014). Ecosystem services provided by waterbirds. Biological Reviews, 89(1), 105–122. https://doi.org/10.1111/brv.12045

Vance-Chalcraft, H. D., Duffey, R., & Knott, D. (2021). Linking avian and aquatic predators stabilizes estuarine food webs. Ecology, 102(12), e03540. https://doi.org/10.1002/ecy.3540
November 21, 2025